


~ The Silence of Dust ~

by Spiced_Wine



Series: Northern Lights [24]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Brief mention of M/M sex, Depression, Gen, Grief, M/M, Mention of Summerland ‘verse, Multi, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 11:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18497599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: Returning to Sören’s universe, Vanimórë decides to go to Sydney, Australia to hide from any who might wish to find him.





	~ The Silence of Dust ~

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verhalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/gifts).



> For Verhalen who wanted Vanimórë situated in Australia.

  
  
  
  


**~ Relict ~**

 

 

 

 

~ The old-gold light of October faded in the room as clouds swallowed the last low rays of the sun. A wild wind rose, flung rain against the windows, whipped around the building.  
The weather had been capricious across this world. How not? The death of one universe echoed through all of them. Even the dullards would feel something, but those with sensitivity, those who believed in _more_ : the religious or spiritual of any kind, healers, empaths, artists, they would have experienced something far deeper. There were storms, heat, typhoons, hurricanes, surging high tides, wildfires and floods. Heat, then unseasonal cold, more reports of UFO’s, ghosts, an uptick in all ‘paranormal’ phenomenon, which mostly went unregarded save by those who were interested in such things. Reddit’s ‘Glitch in the Matrix’ thread was alive with fresh news.

He did not turn on the lights. There was no need. He had learned, long ago, to see in the dark.

The painting seemed to glow in the dimness. He could see the galaxies swirling, spinning, nebulae, dying stars, blue-white giants, yellow suns, neutron stars, the streak of comments, astroid belts, the calm rotation of life-bearing planets. At the centre, the massive black holes.

A siren wailed distantly.

 _They_ would have felt it, naturally: Sören, Claire, Maglor (in both worlds — and his death), Dooku, all Sören’s family would have experienced a mental earthquake.

Vanimórë pushed aside the thought as he did whenever it entered his mind. Coldagnir and Edenel had known when he returned from the Outside. He felt their questing minds: ice and blood-deep passion from Edenel, the power of the Sun that was Coldagnir. He blocked them, hid himself. They would feel compelled to speak to him and he would not be _pitied._ What could he tell them, anyhow? They had been there. They _knew._

He dropped his head in his hands. All they had known was gone; those they had loved, that _he_ loved. Gone. (And what a jest that his father and Eru survived!) But not gone forever. They would know that too, in time, feel the survival of the soul. Perhaps they had felt it even as danced the universes into freedom.  
  
And yet. And still. All he had wanted from the time he was a child in Tol-in-Gaurhoth was to be one of them, accepted, even loved by them, and they were gone. When they awoke to new lives in other universes they would not remember him, although it was possible they would dream of their other lives, have visions, flashes of thought; what they might think of as _deja vu_.  
  
A universe gone. Existing in the minds and memories of only a few. He himself had not destroyed it, but when Fëanor became the Flame Imperishable in truth, the Silmaril incarnate, facing Melkor, it had been inevitable: a collision like matter and antimatter.  
  
And Coldagnir and Edenel would know that also, and would be able to explain.  
  
He rose, eventually, some time in the deep night, and went through the bedroom, into the bathroom. He showered, changed. For a long time he hesitated, then made a call.  
  
Charlie, sounding groggy with sleep, shook awake abruptly and unloaded verbal abuse and questions into his ear.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘There were some things I had to attend to. I will be going to Sydney for a time, to look over some business interests. And, Charlie, you do not know where I am.’  
  
‘...never fucking know where you are! So what else is new?’  
  
He smiled faintly. ‘Well, that is where I will be for a time.’  
  
‘...knackers stung by box jellyfish!’  
  
He would have laughed, but laughter had died. He rallied a little, then ended the call. For a time he sat in the dark, then drew out a suitcase and began to pack.  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

Sydney Harbour sparkled blue under the spring sky. From the terrace, as he sat over coffee, Vanimórë could look directly toward the graceful span of the famous bridge, the bustle of craft on the water, the sunlight glinting from the city’s towers.

Bellevue was a quiet, leafy district with the best views in the city and property prices that reflected that fact. He had not been to the house in several years, renting it out to businessmen for most of that time. It was set in beautiful grounds with a tennis court and pool, and its hillside position allowed him to look down over the treetops to where other expensive houses nestled. It was not as private as Summerland, but it was secluded enough for a city residence, and secluded was what he wanted.

He liked Australia anyhow, such a huge land and population-wise, almost empty while possessing some of the deadliest wildlife in the world and the most ancient people. Years ago he had spent some time with them after a slow and respectful approach. They had known he was not Mortal, even with his glamour, something that few ever saw through.

He had travelled by train and motor vehicle across the continent, through the ‘red centre’, felt the deep mystery of Uluru, seen the mists of the Blue Mountains, and the stark, beautiful coast north of Perth. He drank cold beer in tiny remote towns that hardly even deserved that name, and watched the sun rise over mile after mile of flat, red earth and scrub in the Outback.

Nothing could have been further from that, than this luxury, although he had entertained thoughts of walking off into the wilderness and never returning. But in this world as in Claire’s, the decades of building an empire of wealth and influence were still in place, and he had to keep his finger on the pulse, if not for himself, for others who might find it useful. It was not something he could just leave hanging loose for others to appropriate.

He took the empty coffee-cup into the huge kitchen, and washed it, setting it on the draining board. That was it; one cup and saucer. There was nothing else to do. Vanimórë was accustomed to looking after himself and had a soldier’s neatness so it was no onerous task to keep house and garden tidy. He went into the garden and busied himself weeding until midday, when he swam in the pool, then sat again on the terrace with a salad. When he cooked for himself, his meals tended to be simple, another holdover from his younger days, though he appreciated fine food and drink. In the evening he watched as Sydney’s lights sprang up in the dusk, the high-rise buildings sparkling.

 _To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,_  
_Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,_  
_To the last syllable of recorded time;_  
_And all our yesterdays have lighted fools_  
_The way to dusty death_ *

Except there was no death for this fool, just another day stretching ahead of him. And sitting here doing nothing was no better than sitting on the ‘Outside’ doing nothing, or in London, doing nothing. It was dangerous and foolish and self-indulgent.

He rose at dawn, walked into the city, and found the homeless, the vagrants. Many were drug users, alcoholics, but there was no easy way to cure that, the reasons went too deep; people took drugs or drank to heal some sort of inner pain, to forget, just as Sören had when he was in a dark place in his life. He had lifted himself out of that destructive cycle, but these people had not and could not, poor, sick and homeless. They needed homes they would not get evicted from, an income, but that was only the beginning. he could pour out all the wealth he had on them and it would do little good because they also needed a support network, healthcare and a sense of self-worth and purpose. No matter how many billions Apollyon Enterprises had poured into charities and the voluntary sector, it was never enough.

He glamoured himself from place to place: young, middle-aged, completely forgettable. Neither did he speak, only left food and money, before moving on. In the evening he returned to the house and showered, ate a solitary meal.

Depression lurked in the shadows; too many memories. Ages of them.

 _Find what you love and let it kill you,_  
... _Let it kill you and devour your remains._ **

 

Once he would have thought that apt for Elgalad, something he might have quoted. Now it had been reversed, teeth bared in a mocking grin, at himself.

A bitter taste lodged in his throat. He rose, poured himself a glass of red wine to wash it away, and went out onto the terrace.

But it was too long gone, that love, for resurrection, even had he felt inclined to forgive, which he did not. He almost barked a laugh at that thought. Lies had been layered with lies; at least in being used there had been some honesty. He had spent thousands of years in mourning and guilt at Elgalad’s death. Nothing could be the same after that; nothing could truly survive it. When he thought of Elgalad it was of the ‘Elf’ he had known who travelled with him to the south, to Tanith and eventually to Pashaar as he founded the Imperium. Perhaps it had been the most real.

Except none of it had been real. Despite what Eru had said: _Elgalad — I — love thee._

Eru had known that Vanimórë would never believe anyone loved him, unless he could see a logical reason someone _might_ , through pure ignorance and naivety: a baby dependent on him, a child raised by him, knowing no true mother or father and having no-one else to love. Yes, he would admit that, however misguided the affection, such a person might love him.

He raised his glass in a private salute. Well done, Eru.

And yet, even Eru had admitted that Elgalad could not match Vanimórë in what he desired, _needed_ , the passion and the power that demanded the same from a bed-partner. He had taken what he could get, not what he wanted. He shrugged. Eru had known that he would.

And all so that, at some point, he could regather the part of him Vanimórë had taken, and become whole. _And then what? Thou knowest I would have had to destroy thee, then._  
As it was, the darkness that was Melkor rippled through the other universes and would, in time, coalesce into being. Especially if Eru moved to regather it. To become what he once had been, erstwhile destroyer of a universe.

He took a sip of wine. Nothing was ever ended; the war would go on.

After a while he went in, sat in the midst of empty luxury and took out a drawing pad and charcoal. He did not possess Sören’s talent, that soul-fire burn that showed itself in his art, but he could create, the gift legitimate in his bloodline — on both sides.

 _Knowing_ their souls lived did not negate the fact that he grieved, he mourned them. Their faces took shape under the pencil. Maglor first, standing on the heights of Eru’s palace after their violet tryst, sable hair a storm about his beautiful face. Fëanor, as he had looked before meeting Melkor, having discarded his helm and shield, face Silmaril-bright with fierce, furious resolution to _end this._ (Oh and thou didst!) Tindómion, when he had take him in Lindon, up against the door of the bedchamber, the passion wild, primal, for Tindómion was _so_ like his father. Other faces sprang under the strokes of the pencil: Fingolfin in all his diamond radiance, Gil-galad, Edenel, scorched-white beauty, Coldagnir, hair of sun-fire raying about his head. House Fëanor, House Fingolfin, House Finarfin, the _Khadakhir_. He brought them out of the past, ran a yearning touch over their faces. Hoping for what...? Grief there was and love, but passion had died. He had danced the universes into life. After that, after the betrayal, he felt as sucked dry as when Dana and her acolytes had raped him in Sud Sicanna. There was nothing but the slow sift of dust.  
  
He moved on. Claire’s face grew on the paper, poised between what she had been and what she was now, courage and passion under the suave bones and sweetness of her expression. Mark Lowry beside her, a hint, in the background of a lovely, old Venetian house, deep summer shadows. Sören, dark curls caught in some lost wind, his eyes brilliant, a Silmaril held in one hand, Dooku, Frankie, Magrét. House Fëanor, House Fingolfin, House Finarfin reborn...  
  
He did not draw Elgalad or his father.  
  
When the dawn came, he closed the pad, and sat in the long silence of the dust.  
  
  
  
  
  


**~ OooOooO ~**

 

 

 

 

* Macbeth

**Charles Bukowski


End file.
